The Birds Flew Backwards
by Little Suzi
Summary: Nameks and Saiyans were made to last, but humans were not. Many years into the future, Vegeta and Piccolo are leading rather grim, lonely lives, one content to mourn forever, the other on a path of quiet selfdestruction. Can they save each other? VPyaoi
1. Part One

_The Birds Flew Backwards_

_By Little Suzi_

_no one, not even the rain, has such small hands - e. e. cummings_

_Part One_

Allow me, dear reader, to tell you of the most unlikely aspect of my life.

Be assured that my life was not, by any stretch, a dull one. My father, the king of my home planet, was brutally murdered when I was just five years old. His murderer kidnapped me and trained me in hatred. This was my harsh punishment for living. It ultimately led to my induration and I finally became stone. My kidnapper was satisfied, but not sated. He was a demon, indeed. Watching me, cultivating me, from the sidelines with eyes of blood and white, and a chilling leer; a permissive maniac. He still haunts my nightmares.

When I came to Earth, I found happiness (or was it the other way round? Happiness was, indeed, all but forced on me). It must all be some kind of black humour. I met a woman almost as strong and as cold as I, albeit in a different way. We had a son and a daughter, both of whom I loved deeply. And my life was suddenly wonderfully comfortable.

But humans were not made to last.

My wife went first. I watched, confused, as her life melted away. Her hair drained of colour and her skin sagged. Her hands shook and she grew fat. She died in her sleep. One morning just I could not wake her up, and I couldn't understand why. Dying of old age in your sleep is a luxury my people can rarely afford. She was eighty-three. My people can live over thrice as many years. Yet, the candle that burns twice as bright, burns half as long. She looked like a completely different person when she died; all bloated, with mottled skin and thinning hair. She was like a dried up leaf. I hadn't changed at all.

Then the same thing began to happen to my children. My beautiful children. How I loved them. I would've sacrificed myself to stop this happening to them. Alas, the weak human blood, so incompatible with my alien blood, won out and took their lives. My daughter, my baby girl, looked so much like her mother throughout the whole of her life, and looked exactly the same as she when she died. Like a wilted flower. Not long after we buried her, my son also succumbed.

I visit their graves regularly. They're buried next to our friends. My rival, of the same race as I, left for the otherworld of his own accord. Always after the next adventure. He didn't even stay to watch his wife and half-blood sons die.

Some years later, on one grey day, I got up early. I had bought some white lilies from the florist in the village and was going to tend my family's graves, as I did once every month. I felt like a clockwork doll. I washed my face with cold water. I must have misplaced the soap, because it wasn't by the sink. I dressed quickly; black jumper, black trousers, black boots, black gloves. I always dressed in black these days, permanently in mourning.

I didn't feel like eating, which is odd for me, as my race typically eat a lot. Rummaging around the cupboards, I eventually found some tasteless cornflakes. I couldn't stand to even think about anything with flavour. I chewed slowly and carefully, counting each mouthful. After I had finished, I picked up the lilies. Their perfume was chokingly sweet.

As I passed the mirror in the hall, I checked my reflection. I have never been a vain man, but I couldn't bear the idea of visiting my family with cornflake crumbs around my mouth. My face was clean, I noted, as I gazed at the man in the mirror. He had a harsh, sinewy look to him, with a firm jaw, broad shoulders and well-formed muscles. He looked fairly young, but his true age was betrayed by his eyes. They were small, black and world-weary, tinged with a mist of sadness and regret. Yet those eyes were so lifeless; the button-eyes of the clockwork man. He didn't look all there, his mind occupied by more painful thoughts than those of ordinary people. The skin at the corners of his eyes was pinched and drawn, and there were lines around his mouth, deepening every day. His hair stuck straight up in long, tough wires. It was still mostly black, but was starting to become streaked with grey. As if the grey clouds in the sky were infecting him. Even his skin had a greyish quality to it. He was now pushing two hundred. I sighed at the sight, before tearing my eyes away from the image of myself and stepping outside.

I had moved to the mountains a few years ago; the old house had seemed too big for just me. It felt so empty once they had died. I sold it, sold the company they had left behind, and bought a cabin as far away as I could. I took the Gravity Chamber with me but I seem to use it less and less these days. Some things just stopped seeming important. The change had been good for me, and so had the mountain air. I stopped feeling as desperate and hopeless as I had been. Mostly, I just felt hysterical. I still had nightmares.

My little house had only five tiny rooms; the hallway, the kitchen, the bathroom, the sitting room and my bedroom. It also had a little porch with an old wooden chair that I still hadn't got round to throwing out, even though I never sat on it and it legs were rotting and it was covered in moss. There were no other homes for miles around, so I was mostly left alone. Even the postman wouldn't come up here; I had to collect what little mail I got from the post office in the village four miles away, at the base of the mountains. I only went once a month, after I visited the graves of my wife and children, during which time I would do my shopping at their little store. I bought bread and cornflakes and tinned fruit and fish and soup. Things that would keep. Though the bread I ate towards the end of the month was always stale. I'd also become reliant on cigarettes and coffee, so I always made sure to buy a large supply. I used to take affront at the thought of anyone abusing their bodies in such a way, but now it didn't seem to matter. I also bought a small amount of fresh fruit, vegetables and meat, but I usually found it was better to obtain my meat by catching a rabbit or wildcat near my home. I collected the bones. I had a cupboard full; I liked to look at them. The local wildlife ensured I never went hungry, either physically or visually.

The locals, originally suspicious of me, became used to me, and then even came to even like me. Though I never said much to anyone, and offered them no kindnesses, they always treated me with courtesy. The lady who worked in the store would often put together my usual bag of shopping for me to just pick up and pay for when I arrived. Occasionally she would slip in a small carrot cake or a tin of custard. When I asked her about it, she said I needed a little treat. She never charged me for it. I never ate it. The thought of sugar made me feel ill.

After collecting my shopping and my mail (usually junk), I would call at the local bookstore. Though they only stocked a few dusty volumes, the little wizened old man there, who, for some reason, reminded me a little of my son, would order in or put aside some books for me. I had taken to reading a lot, because so little else was happening. I got the feeling they felt sorry for me, the reclusive widower, which made me feel dreadful.

This monthly outing was almost the only time I would leave my home. I was still waiting for the pieces to fall back into place again. I somehow felt I would be waiting forever.

It was an hour's flight to Satan City. My family were buried, side-by-side, hand-in-hand, in a church ground just outside of the city walls. I looked up at the sky; the clouds had grown dark and heavy, resembling machinery. It was looking like rain. It would probably pour on my way home. I turned and went back inside and pulled my heavy black coat off the coat rack and then took off without another thought.

It was already beginning to rain when I arrived. I landed on the gravel path, in the shadow of the church, a squat, ugly, building that looked a lot like my chair – rotten and moss-covered. I pushed open the wrought-iron gate, which squeaked terribly. My limbs seemed to grow heavier as I approached their graves. As I arrived, I halted in surprise.

Bent over the tidy graves of our friends was another figure. One I had not seen in many years. He was planting bunches of carnations by their headstones. Why had I never wondered who tended their graves?

He looked so different I barely recognised him. His skin was darker than I remember it being, darkened with age, now the same colour as the wet grass. His face was beginning to crease along his brow, by his eyes and by his mouth. Not deep creases, more like folds in paper. And he looked thin. So very thin. Like straw, all wasted and dry. His face was sunken and his cheekbones were jutting horribly. He had forsaken his usual uniform and was wearing a black suit made of heavy wool. It was bulky and hid his figure, yet, as the same time, made him look even thinner. It was clear all his muscles were withered, eaten up by his starving body. His ears twitched as my feet crunched on the gravel, and his neck clicked at his head swung round to look at me. His eyes looked so much like my own had that morning; sad, empty and so very hollow, like deep holes in the ground. I could envision myself crawling inside those tunnel-eyes, to hide from time, deep inside those bottomless wells. Yet, when he saw me, they began to glitter strangely.

He straightened up and offered me a sad sort of smile, pleasant yet very detached. I did not return it. I had come here for a purpose. Ignoring him, I knelt down in front of my wife's grave and removed last month's dead flowers, replacing them with the fresh, too-fragrant blossoms I had brought. I cleared away any dead leaves, they reminded me too much of her final days, and gave the marble of her headstone a wipe. I thought about her when she was young and traced out the letters on the headstone with my finger. I repeated these actions for the graves of my son and my daughter. By now the rain was getting heavy, crashing and buzzing inside my ears. When I was satisfied, I got back to my feet and turned to go.

He was still standing there, watching me. I had to acknowledge him.

"Piccolo." I said. My voice felt hoarse from the lack of use.

"Hello, Vegeta." He said in gravelly tones. He didn't offer me the smile again. "How have you been?"

The meeting felt awkward. I couldn't quite meet his eyes. His face moved in an out of focus, so I looked to the mechanical sky. My hair was becoming heavy with the rain, water running in rivulets down my face. Piccolo didn't even seem to notice the water that was streaming down his face, pooling in the folds in his aging skin. I sighed.

"You know, you don't have to talk to me if you don't want to." Piccolo sniffed. He sounded slightly hurt, I noted.

"I know I don't, Namek." Using the harsh moniker made me feel a little more comfortable, "I just don't know what to say."

"It's been six years since we last saw one-another. You must have something to say." His clothes were sopping wet now, and he was beginning to shiver. He pretended not to notice and continued to meet my eyes, stubbornly.

All of a sudden I felt bad. _Curse the faltering steps of my subconscious._ I took a few hesitant steps towards him and closed the gap between us. I grasped his arm and began to walk him out of the graveyard. He allowed himself to be led. How thin his arm was! I could wrap my entire hand around it.

I guided him across the road to a small coffee shop. Anywhere that would get him out of the rain. He didn't look strong enough for that kind of weather.

The coffee shop was a pleasant little place. It only had eight tables, each with a blue and white chequered tablecloth and a vase with plastic flowers in unnaturally bright colours. It was completely empty apart from the waitress, sat at the counter reading a glossy magazine. She looked mildly irritated when we walked in. I sat Piccolo down next to a radiator. He looked grateful to be off his feet and in the warmth. I shrugged off my wet coat and put it over the back of my chair to drip-dry, then went over to the counter and ordered two coffees and sat back down at the table.

"Do you drink coffee?" it occurred to me I had no idea if it was compatible with his biology. I was relieved when he gave a short nod.

"Anything liquid." He explained curtly.

"Then why are you so thin?" I tried to make my voice sound concerned, but it was hard (impossible?) to deliver in my monotone. Piccolo's head snapped up at that. I was never one to pussyfoot around.

"Since Dende returned to Namek…I haven't had the energy to…I just haven't…" He avoided my eyes, concentrating on the tablecloth. I had never known the Namek to be uncertain of anything before. But things were different now. We were old now.

The waitress put down two white china cups, filled with the black liquid, and a pot of milk in front of us. Piccolo warmed his hands on his as I took a gulp. It was bitter and slightly too hot to drink. I put it down and turned my attention back towards the Namek who, despite being over a foot taller than myself, looked so small, hunched over in his chair.

"So you haven't been talking care of yourself at all? You clearly haven't been training. I'm surprised you have the energy to get up and walk around! What have you been doing?" I was surprised to feel anger swell in my belly, and I had no idea why.

"Well…" Piccolo had winced from the harshness of my voice, but he seemed slightly piqued by my attitude. For a moment I recognised my old ally. "I have my garden."

"Really?" I snorted. Then I began to chuckle. Loudly. Piccolo raised an eyebrow in irritation. "The Green Bean has green fingers? Ha ha!"

"Yes, yes. I'm sure you find it very amusing." Piccolo waved a bony hand at me as he added milk to his coffee. He was getting annoyed. That was a good sign. He was still himself.

"No, no." I shook my head and stopped laughing. "It's understandable. I mean, I have my books."

"You can read?" Piccolo smirked. It was my turn to be annoyed.

"So, I've never seen you at the churchyard before. Why's that?" I changed the subject. I didn't like where the conversation was going; far too personal. I still had my pride. In point of fact, that was all I had left.

"I don't normally come today. I usually come on the 20th of the month, but I've been quite ill lately."

"I'm not surprised, you look like you can barely stand up." I muttered as I drained off my coffee cup.

Piccolo didn't reply. He just sipped his coffee, pushed it away and got shakily to his feet and headed towards the bathroom. I stared out of the window. The rain was beginning to ease off. I picked up the coffee cups and the milk jug and placed them on the counter. The waitress nodded her thanks. My coat was still damp, but I pulled it on anyway and waited for Piccolo to return.

I held the door open for him as we left, touching my hand to the small of his back as he went though. He just seemed so fragile. Quivering as if about to shatter with every careful step.

"You know, Piccolo, you're the only one left." I turned to him. The rain had virtually stopped now, and the sun was beginning to filter through. The grief that I kept curled up in a tight ball inside my chest began to sprawl through my insides. I felt sick and pushed it all back down again.

"I know." He said softly, placing his hand on my shoulder. I wanted to place mine on top of his for a moment, but I didn't. Looking at it, I could've crushed it with the slightest pressure of fingertips.

"Well," He pulled his hand back, sharply, as if frightened, (Had he read my thoughts?) "I better be going."

"Piccolo. Will come here today from now on?" I said, quickly. I needed to see him again. A familiar face, an old connection. He looked mildly astonished, but his expression soon softened.

"Certainly. In which case, I shall see you next month."

"Yeah, see you."

Piccolo then took flight, as unsteady in the sky as he was on his feet. Flying clearly cost him visible effort. I watched his labours, feeling rather concerned, before turning away and flying home to run my errands.

I began at the post office. My mail for the entire month consisted of a church flyer, a coupon for a clothing outlet over one hundred miles away that, consequently, I never visited, and a letter from my late wife's solicitor, informing me that the last of her stock had finally been released to me. It had taken so long because we never had got married. I sincerely regret never doing that.

I journeyed on to the store to pick up my groceries. As I entered, the bell on the door rang and the lady who worked there looked up. When she saw me she gave me a huge smile that screwed up her face and showed all her teeth and a lot of her gums. It was quite unattractive, but I smiled back at her.

"Good morning, Mr. Vegeta!" she said cheerily, fishing out two brown paper bags from beneath the counter.

"Morning." I returned curtly, poking my nose in the bags to check she'd included everything. I picked up a bar of lavender-scented soap from a nearby stand and put it in the bag too.

"And how are you today?" she said as she fiddled with the till. It bleeped. This woman was like the flowers I had left on the graves this morning; nauseating. She tried too hard to be nice and was a brazen flirt. She just made me feel sick to my belly. Even being her presence felt like a disservice to my wife.

"Oh, fine, fine. I ran into an old friend today, actually." I muttered without thinking about it.

"How nice!" She smiled that smile again, "How long has it been since you last saw him?"

"About six years, I think. I hadn't seen him since my son's funeral." That wiped the smile off her face.

"Oh, I see. And how is he?" she seemed flustered and fiddled with the bags, avoiding my eye.

"He didn't look too well, actually. He's lost a lot of weight." I said as I gathered the bags in my arms, handing over some money.

"Oh, dear. Well, I slipped some flapjacks in there for you. You just share some of them with him." She winked at me and handed me my change. "Bye now, dear."

I left, the bell tinkling behind me as I did, and called at the bookshop. The old man there had found me five new books, which should keep me entertained for the next month. He bagged them for me and I managed to clutch them by manoeuvring things in my grocery bag around. Then I flew home.

I found the soap in the kitchen. It had fallen down the side of the counter, so I threw it away. I put the new soap in the bathroom, unpacked my shopping and then took a shower. The water was cold; the heater must be broken again. I didn't mind the ice-cold water, though. It felt cleansing. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, letting the water pour over my face.

But today's little ritual seemed different. Something had shifted when I'd seen Piccolo in the graveyard. I felt unsettled, although not altogether unhappy. Maybe just a little distressed. The problem with my current lifestyle was that it gave me far too much time to think. Initially this had helped me clear my head when my family died, but nowadays it was just troublesome. Maybe it was that the cold water felt just like that rain that had poured down around Piccolo and I, while he, thin and vulnerable, had shivered.

I dried off, threw on a dressing gown and grabbed a book, slumping down in a well-worn green chair in my sitting room. The room was so small that there was only room for an armchair, a sofa and a bookcase, leaving only just enough room to move about in. I should've liked a coffee table to put my feet up on, but there just wasn't space for one.

I tried to become engrossed in the book, but I just couldn't concentrate. My thoughts kept returning to Piccolo. The characters in the book didn't help much either; one was a cancer patient, growing thin and pale, and the other (my mouth twitched in amusement) was a gardener. I sighed and closed the book.

How old we had grown!

I went to bed. I thought maybe that my thoughts and concerns might keep me awake, but sleep quickly found me. Reality melted away in the shadows. I dreamt dark, claustrophobic dreams, in which I suffocated and thin white flashes of figures danced erratically before my eyes. I awoke with a start, relieved to be back in my own bed, and to see sunlight pouring through the window.

The month passed in the usual manner. I read books (but not the one about the cancer patient and the gardener) and cooked modest meals. I fixed the heater, did push-ups to keep in shape and set traps in the woodland near my home and caught rabbits, skinning them and roasting them for dinner. Their skeletons disturbed me; their bones were like chalk. They would crumble if I merely squeezed them. They reminded me too much of what the Namek had become. They made me feel uneasy. I emptied the cupboard of their bones and flung them out at the purple mountains.

I couldn't understand how that could have possibly happened to him. He'd always been so strong and determined with a powerful sense of self-preservation (apart from when it came to my rival's boy). He'd seemed to be calm, collected and intelligent too. He was certainly a master strategist. It occurred to me then how little I really knew him; he'd always kept himself to himself, never really associating with anyone. That boy was always the exception. I, in turn, never made an effort to speak to him unless there was something I needed to know. He always seemed to know everything. How was it possible that he had been reduced to that sad, frail, ghostly figure that I had seen? A wraith, _(his or mine?)_ afraid of his own fear.

Why hadn't he and I found solace in one another after our friends were cruelly snatched from us? I remember the boy passing not too long after my daughter. At the funeral, Piccolo had been slumped in the corner, like a broken doll. The boy's wife had been wailing like a banshee, but I remember more the grief on the Namek's face; it was intense and palpable. I hadn't even thought to comfort him.

Dende had left for his home planet not long after that, and Piccolo had simply vanished. By then my son was dying. I hadn't even noticed the Namek's disappearance. He came back for my son's funeral, but I didn't say a word to him, consumed with grief as I was. Then he was gone again.

When the month was up, I got up early and washed my face, eating a tasteless breakfast (dry crackers and black tea), and, tucking white lilies beneath my arm (less fragrant this time, I noted), flew to the graveyard outside of the city. My thoughts were of the Namek the whole time.

He was already there when I arrived, sat on a bench adjacent to the headstones, bathing in the lucid autumn sun. The pallid light caught every angle of his gaunt face, making his eyes seem sunken and his cheeks even more hollow. His huge ears now seemed altogether too big for his head. This thinness had knocked him entirely out of proportion. I felt strangely sad, watching him like that.

I tenderly tidied the graves of my loved ones without a word. Then I turned to Piccolo. He was watching me with those piercing eyes. We didn't speak. He just got to his feet and we walked over to the coffee shop. I made him sit by the radiator again; there was an icy chill in the air and I didn't want him catching anything. He didn't look like he would recover.

"So you came." I said, as the same waitress as before set down a pair of cups in front of us. I had ordered hot chocolate for Piccolo. He looked like he needed it.

"Of course." Piccolo said, taking a sip. He looked pleasantly surprised by the flavour, and took another. "So," he paused for a moment, puzzling out how to start a conversation. Neither of us was exactly fond of talking, much less to each other. He chose the safest route, "How have you been?"

"Oh, fine. My hot water heater broke, so I had to fix that." I didn't like talking about these mundane things; I was used to my life being a whirl of epic battles, a quest to prove myself and defeat my rival. Not sleeping late, fixing appliances and reading books.

"I've just planted a new Japanese Maple." Piccolo had a tone to his voice that suggested he was thinking along the same lines as I was.

"What's that?"

"A tree." Piccolo smirked.

"Are you sure you should be outside so much?" I couldn't help being concerned, when I thought of Piccolo lugging a young tree around in the damp, his waist scarcely bigger than the tree's skinny trunk.

Piccolo didn't reply to that, staring into the depths of his mug. I looked around the café. There was a young mother at the table by the window with a blonde, pig-tailed girl who looked to be no more than three years old. She was making funny faces at the child who was giggling whilst trying to stuff her mouth with cake. I usually found humanity repellent , but the scene made me smile, slightly. Other than that, there was no one else in.

"Do you think about them a lot?" Piccolo said quietly, as if to disassociate himself from the statement, still gazing into the cup.

"My family? All the time." I said wistfully.

"Mmm. Me too. Gohan, I mean. And Dende, even though I could still go visit him. He's just so far away."

"Why did he leave?" I had never quite been clear on the details.

"Homesickness, I suppose. And Moori, his father, Namek's leader, was ill. Namek needed him more." Piccolo heaved a sigh.

"Who's the new Guardian?"

"Tree spirit. Unpleasant sort of person. He and I didn't really see eye to eye. I couldn't stay there. He just made me very angry." Piccolo shrugged.

"So where are you living now? Not that valley?" I was somewhat horrified at the thought of Piccolo living out in the open again. He looked like a strong wind could carry him away.

"Yes and no." Piccolo's expression turned to a melancholy smile, "They built a small town on it about twenty years ago. You know the sort, roads and bridges and houses and schools and farms and people. There's a park with a swing set and a roundabout near where I used to meditate, and half the land is used for growing crops and raising chickens and sheep. It had changed so much when I went back. But I couldn't bear to leave it." Piccolo let out a deep sigh, "I took a little cottage there. It's not much, but it is quite secluded. And the locals mostly leave me alone. Some of the children stare at me; their grandparents told them about my days as a warrior – I know because the brave ones come and ask me about it." Piccolo shook his head, "Everything's just so different these days."

"I know what you mean." I drained my cup. The young woman and her daughter left, smiling.

"So, where do you live now? I know you sold the Capsule Corp. It was in all the papers."

"I have a small house in the mountains. Very peaceful. Far away from anyone, really. No one bothers me."

"You sound like a hermit. Or a monk." Piccolo said, expressionless. His lack of expression was familiar and comforting. He had been emoting far too much before. _Age and time, how your tricks elude me_.

"Do you know what happened to the Capsule Corp?" I swiftly switched subjects again.

"They moved the company to a bigger city. I think the old building is a shopping centre or something now. They put asphalt over your front garden."

"They didn't! That's such a shame; my mother-in-law loved that garden."

"It was a beautiful garden."

"I suppose you'd know all about that." I couldn't keep the tone of mocking from my voice, "What's your garden like?"

"It's nice. Small, though. But it adds a bit of colour to my life. And it's something to do. I can't really train anymore. And meditation is so draining." Piccolo ran one long finger around the rim of his mug, then raised it to his mouth and took another sip, before pushing it away. He'd barely drunk half of it.

Simultaneously, we rose to our feet and left the coffee shop. The day was still bright and cold, though there were clouds darkening on the horizon and the liquid sunlight was already beginning to recede.

"Same time next month?" I smirked at the Namek.

"Sure, Vegeta." He pushed off from the ground and hovered in the air, wavering slightly, "You know, you can stop by my house any time."

I nodded absently, and he flew away into the blue sky. I sighed, and returned to the village to collect my mail and run my errands.

* * *

Notes: This, my latest effort, was originally intended to be read as one piece. It has no line breaks; it is, mostly, continuous prose. However, owing to its length, I decided to split it up into three pieces, which I would post separately. This will also enable me to answer any questions. It is about grief, more than anything else, and is also about loneliness, and how two people can react to it. As I abhor GT, I mostly pretend it never happened. In which case, I'd assume that the two characters who'd be left would be Piccolo and Vegeta, the former because of how long Nameks live, the latter because I imagine a Sayian lifespan to be around thrice that of a human's, and also because Vegeta just seems like the type to never give up. In any case, I hope you enjoy my little love story. The next part shall follow soon. 


	2. Part Two

_The Birds Flew Backwards_

_By Little Suzi_

_I loved you when our love was blessed,  
And I love you now there's nothing left  
- Leonard Cohen_

Part Two 

And then another month passed by, after which I would see Piccolo and we would have coffee, then part. A month later this would be repeated. I never took him up on his offer to visit, but, all the same, I would look forward to our little meetings. It felt odd, because, although I was visiting my dead family, it didn't seem to hurt as much anymore. I even started to look forward to the day. Was I turning him into a replica? (Given that he looked nothing like any member of my family, it would make me a very poor artisan). Still, every time I saw him was like spinning a little, silver cobweb over the faces of my beloved. I should've felt a little guilty, I suppose.

This month, winter was setting in. I had felt the chill in the air become more intense, but I didn't really give it much thought. However, one afternoon whilst I was engrossed in a book, I chanced to glance out of the window. Snow was tumbling silently from the sky, like confetti at a wedding. I watched it for a little while, before I went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and light a cigarette. I smoked it while I waited for the kettle to boil, grinding it out in the ashtray. I returned to the sitting room with my coffee and looked out the window again. I jumped with surprise – how quickly the snow had settled! It covered the ground and the trees and everything in sight, bringing down a gentle hush, muffling everything. I gazed out of my window at the noiseless landscape, thinking of the Namek. Oh hell, I'll admit it, _worrying_ about the Namek. The snow had covered everything and I didn't know how he would cope with it.

Still, it was our day to meet up tomorrow, so, I decided, I would see how he was then. I returned to my book.

That was a mistake.

The next day, after wrapping up warm in a black scarf and black earmuffs (I've never been able to find a hat to go over my hair), and using all my strength to force open the door, as there was a foot of snow barricading it, I set off to the city.

When I arrived at the graveyard everything was silent. There were no tracks in the clean, white snow that glittered under the winter sun. It made the graveyard seem incredibly eerie. I forced the gate open, corrupting the snow's purity, and deliberately trudged through it, dragging my feet to reveal the dark gravel beneath. For some reason this snow, this gentle white fluff, inspired such hatred in me. I cleaned it all off my wife and children's headstones, and then off the headstones of my rival's family and off those of our friends. It seemed important. Then I sat down on the bench and I waited.

And I waited.

And I waited.

Piccolo still had not arrived. When I could almost feel my lips turning blue, I began to worry. No, that's understating it. I began to panic. I got up and went over the road to check he wasn't in the coffee shop. But there was only that young mother and a man with a newspaper. I swung around and began to think. I was too flustered to gather my thoughts together properly.

I tried to remember where Piccolo's valley was in relation to Satan City. My mind kept coming up blank. I turned the way Piccolo flew home and just flew until I saw something that looked familiar, all the time my mind spinning, a merry-go-round of pain and worry. I was feeling very sick. I saw it all go by in slow motion.

Then I saw it. Just as Piccolo had described - a little town, surrounded by farmland, nestled comfortably in the base of the once lush and blossoming valley. It was covered in a thick layer of the glistening snow, but I could still make out the tilled and ploughed farmland, and the park beside the waterfall, which was still flowing, the weather not quite being cold enough to freeze it.

I landed on the roof of a house in the centre of the village, slipping a little on the snow-covered roof, but maintaining my balance. I cast my gaze about, trying to concentrate. The snow made it almost impossible to identify a cultivated and well-loved garden, but I had to try. Yet, no matter where I looked, none of the houses seemed quite right. I could feel the worry rising up and up, clambering frantically at my throat again.

Then I spotted it!

Up a short trail, out of the base of the valley and the centre of the village, perched, almost precariously, on the hillside, was a little stone cottage. I flew up towards it to get a better look. It was a single-floor building with a thatched roof. There was a low stone wall surrounding it, and a black-painted iron gate with a bolt. And there was a garden beneath the snow! Ornamental trees embraced the snow, holding it up like delicate and deadly white blossoms. There were empty flower pots littered around and trellises against the walls. I could imagine the garden being quite beautiful in the spring time. Yes, this looked like the place.

I reached round the gate, unlocked it and pushed it open. I trudged up the garden path, taking care not to slip. The door was painted black, with a brass handle. I rang the bell and waited. Nothing. I rang again. Nothing. Then I began to pound on the door.

"Namek?" I called, "Piccolo? Are you in there?"

I listened carefully, but I still could hear nothing. I decided I would have to get inside. I took a step back and formed a small ball of white energy and threw it at the door. The lock flew off easily. The door swung open.

I stepped into an poorly-lit sitting room. It looked a little grubby, but that may have just been the light. The walls were the same unpainted stone as the exterior of the cottage and the wood of the floor was unpolished. I was amused to see items such as watering cans, trowels and packets of seeds covering every surface. I noticed a photo frame on the mantelpiece above the stone fireplace. I picked it up and smiled sadly at the image in it. I remembered that photograph being taken. Years ago, on one of those too-few gatherings, my wife had whipped out a camera and pushed us all into forced poses with forced smiles. I remember the sun being too hot and the picture took too long to take. I'd got irritated and annoyed and threatened to blast everyone. But now, looking at the picture, I was so very glad it was taken. I sighed and put the frame back down.

There were two doors on the other side of the sitting room. I pushed open the nearest, which led into a small kitchen. It looked dusty and disused, apart from the muddy Wellingtons that were sat on a piece of newspaper by the backdoor. I tried the other door.

This one led to the bedroom. The air that immediately met me was hot and thick and smelt foul, of sickness and rot. I could almost taste acid in it. The room was darkened by heavy drapes, but I could make out a slight figure huddled beneath the blankets on the bed. I threw open the curtains, which were made of a red velvet and smelt of dust and skin, and the light streamed into the small room. The figure beneath the covers didn't even flinch, so I assumed that he must be unconscious. Or…

But I didn't want to think about the or.

I strode over to the bed and pulled the sheets from him, flinging them on to the floor. Piccolo, clad only in a flimsy white shirt, was curled up in the foetal position in the centre of the bed. His eyes were closed. I felt for a pulse, but where the hell do you search for a pulse on a Namekian? I found one in his jugular, and let out a breath that I didn't even realise I was holding.

He didn't look well though. He seemed even thinner than before, if possible. I tried to wake him, but he wouldn't come to. I went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water, then returned to the bedroom and emptied it over his face. Nothing. He didn't so much as splutter. Was he even breathing? I couldn't hear anything. Worriedly, I pulled a thread from one of the blankets and held it in front of his nose. It only wavered slightly with his breath. This was bad.

There was nothing for it. I'd have to take him with me. There was no way I'd just leave him here, in this dark little house, where he'd eventually expire. No, no. I'd have to take him home with me. I found Piccolo's wardrobe and pulled out two shirts and two pairs of trousers, his heavy coat and a pair of boots. I glanced in at the back and spotted his old purple gi. I snatched that off the hanger too. Just in case. I eased Piccolo out of his hunched over position and, embarrassedly averting my eyes from his bare nether regions, helped him into a pair of trousers. A crimson blush had spread across my face and I was feeling curiously warm. I ignored it and helped the unconscious Namek into his boots and wrapped him up in his coat. I threw the other items into a rucksack and slung it over my back.

Then I picked him up. I had been prepared for some weight, given his extreme height, but he was lighter than air. I felt the worry settle deep in my gut.

I flew as quickly as I could and arrived home barely two hours later. I had made excellent time. Piccolo hadn't even stirred during the flight. I kicked my door open, my hands being full with holding the unconscious Namek. I then took him to my room and lay him on my bed. I felt better now he was somewhere where I could keep an eye on him.

I went into the kitchen and lit a cigarette. I needed something to calm my nerves. I then rummaged through the cupboards until I found a tin of soup. I emptied the tin into a pan and heated it up on the stove, gradually adding water to it, to make it more fluid so Piccolo could drink it.

I put it in a little bowl and took a spoon from the draw. Piccolo was just where I had left him; he hadn't moved an inch. I sat on the edge of the bed and propped his head up with a pillow, tilted his head back and gently opened his jaws. His teeth were as sharp and pointed as ever. When the runny soup was cool enough I carefully spooned it down his throat and massaged it, forcing him to swallow. I had to get some nourishment into him somehow. I was worried that he would never wake up again, that he had fallen into an irreversible coma. That he, like my wife, would just die in his sleep. The soup dribbled round his mouth. I wiped it away with the pad of my thumb, stuck by how strangely delicate his lips were. I traced them round with my index finger. Once the bowl was empty I moved to a little rickety chair by the bedside and opened a book. The only one I had left was about the cancer patient and the gardener, as I hadn't been shopping today. I sighed and began to read.

An hour or so later, Piccolo began to whimper and shiver. I put a hand on his forehead; it was too warm. He was burning up. I wrenched his coat off him and unbuttoned his shirt. The sight of his chest shocked me. What was once so broad and taught with muscle seemed to have collapsed in on itself. His ribcage protruded distinctly. I wanted to touch it, but he just looked too fragile. Tentatively, I placed my hand on his chest. It was slick with sweat. I ran my hands over it, feeling the bones. He felt like a baby bird. He really was so very weak. Piccolo let out a quiet wail then fell silent again. I sat back on my chair and kept vigil until morning.

I must've fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was being woken as Piccolo spluttered into consciousness. I jumped up, open book falling from my lap, and sat on the edge of the bed. Piccolo's eyes flickered open, unfocused and shot with blood. He blinked a few times then looked at me. He didn't seem to register who I was immediately. (_Oh, Piccolo, what is that nothingness like?_) A few seconds passed until I saw the light of recognition flicker into his eyes. (_Did you feel free?_)

"V-Vegeta? Where am I?" his voice was very faint.

"You're at my house." I said, wondering at how odd that sounded. I was relieved when he didn't ask me any questions; I wasn't sure if I could really answer them. But I tried to explain myself anyway. "I wanted to keep an eye on you."

"Why? What day is it?" his voice was so breathless.

"Thursday. When you didn't turn up at the graveyard I got worried…wait, how long have you been asleep?" Piccolo didn't reply, merely shifting his weight to get a better look around my room. "Piccolo!" I was snarling like an animal. I never have been able to curb my violent temperament.

"Since Monday evening." He said, not looking at me, "I was in the garden when I felt dizzy, so I went to bed. I couldn't get up the next morning." He hauled himself up into a sitting position, clearly uncomfortable at lying prone before me, and got a glimpse out of the window, "When did it snow?"

"Tuesday afternoon. It's pretty thick over at your house as well." I folded my arms, crossly, "And don't try to change the subjects, Namek."

"Why do you even care, Vegeta?" he snapped, "I am NOT Bulma!"

Everything fell deathly silent for a moment. Piccolo must've seen some hurt look on my face, because he instantly look horrified and turned his gaze out the window, staring at the snow. I rearranged my expression before speaking.

"I know you're not." It came out sounding very small, "And I know you're thinking I'm projecting emotion on to you, because you're that last connection I have to them, but I'm not. I'm not." I became less sure of myself the more I denied it. Piccolo turned to look at me again. His face was as expressionless as ever. "Look at you, Piccolo, just look at you." I grabbed his open shirt and pulled it right off his back. His bones poked through his green skin more horrifically when you saw it all at once. I winced. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"Why does it matter?" he retorted. There was a bite in his tone; a venom I remembered from all those years ago. He snatched his shirt back.

"Because it's not right!" his petulant attitude was getting frustrating and I was getting angry, "You're a warrior. You were born a warrior! Listen, I know about grief. I know how destructive it is. But you have to move on."

"Like you moved on?" Piccolo raised his eyebrow. "You sit around here, waiting for death. Why is your life so different from mine?"

I was struck by that. It hurt. Back in the day the only things Piccolo ever said to me were uncomfortable home truths. But I could never quite remember them being as cruel as that. Even when he told me that I couldn't go to heaven, he had never once tried to hurt me. That, however, was said with malice. I could taste the poison. _The many joys of our verbal violence._ I decided to ignore it. I got to my feet to give myself some rare height over the sitting Namek.

"You're staying here." I informed him in my no-nonsense tone folding my arms over my chest.

"Don't be ridiculous." Piccolo hissed, "I've just woken up and already we're arguing. Besides, you told me this place was small, and judging by this room you weren't lying. Where would I sleep?"

"The couch pulls out. Now –"

"Marvellous, Vegeta." He laughed bitterly, "In case you hadn't noticed I had a bed of my own at home."

"Which you were unable to get out of! Face it, Namek, you need looking after!"

"I most certainly do not!"

"Oh yes you do."

"And you're volunteering? Out of the goodness of your heart?"

"Yes!"

"Why?"

"Because I care about you!"

We both fell silent for a moment. He was seething and I could feel my blood boil, but we both took a few breaths, though his were laboured, and calmed down. I sat down on the end of the bed.

"You're the only one left, Piccolo. I can't lose you." I said quietly, staring intently at the floor.

"I know. I'm sorry." He said just as quietly, his voice a croaky whisper, rough as sand.

Then we reverted to normal volume.

"I can't leave my garden." He sniffed. I rolled my eyes.

"I'm going to go make you a drink."

"But I don't want one."

"Tough."

I departed for the kitchen and made coffee, spooning generous portions of sugar into the Namek's cup. I was going to make it my personal duty to get some weight on him. I felt strangely obligated. I went to get a cigarette, but the packet was empty. Damn, I needed to get some shopping in.

I took the cup back into my bedroom. Piccolo had put his shirt back on and was attempting to get to his feet. I put the coffee cups down on the dressing table and lightly pushed Piccolo back on to the bed with one hand. It disturbed me how easily he was felled. I couldn't help but comment on it.

"When we were younger, you'd have to have a broken neck or a hole through the chest to fall like that. Now, the slightest tap and you collapse in a heap." I handed Piccolo a coffee cup, "I think my point has been proven. Drink it. All of it."

Piccolo didn't say a word as he took the cup and raised it to his mouth, sipping at it daintily. I sat down and took a deliberately large gulp that almost made me choke. The Namek smirked cruelly at me, but, nevertheless, took another sip.

"Did you never think of following Dende to Namek?" I said, "I mean, you wouldn't be quite so lonely there, because you'd have him."

"What makes you think I'm lonely?" he scoffed, then paused. We both seemed to realise at that point that maybe, just maybe, we were past these games. "Dende would be altogether too busy for me. And I'm the only fighter-class Namek left; I'd be just as alone. Besides, Earth is my home. It's where I was born and it's where I shall die. I was offered a place on New Namek, remember? I turned it down because a life of simple farming just wasn't for me."

"And what's so different about the lifestyle you're leading now?"

"At least I'm on Earth." Piccolo scowled darkly at me. "In any case, why haven't you taken off into the vacuum of space? I thought you hated this planet. I recall you threatening to destroy it on more than one occasion."

"More than once? Never!" I scoffed, but my memory wasn't what it used to be; maybe he was right. "And I don't hate it. It took me a while, but I've grown accustomed to it. And it's, you know, _their_ planet."

"I understand." Piccolo's hand found my own. I stared at the elongated, green fingers clasped in my own. I would've squeezed it, but for fear of breaking it. I had to mention it.

"Kami, I feel like I could crumple your bones if I only squeezed them." I shook my head.

"You probably could. You're still as strong as ever."

"You know what I mean."

"Mmm." Piccolo drained his coffee cup, pulling his hand away, and tried to stand up again. This time, I let him. "Look, Vegeta, thank you for caring, but I just can't stay with you. It's not practical."

"Sit down and shut up, Namek." I barked, finishing off my coffee and bringing the cup down on the dressing table with a thump.

I was fully prepared for Piccolo to do neither and start arguing with me again but, strangely, he obeyed, slumping down on the bed.

"Just until I get better?" he said after a moment, lifting his eyes to meet mine.

"Of course." I said warmly, before catching myself, and affecting a measure of spite, "You think I'd let you stay here longer than that?"

"Alright." Piccolo nodded, "But can I at least go home and get some things?"

"No. I don't want you going back there. I'll go back and get whatever you need for you." The thought of Piccolo in that little dingy place made me feel ill.

"Alright." He paused and thought for a second, "I assume you broke the lock whilst abducting me?"

"Abduct is such an ugly word. And yes. Clean off. "

"Would you board up the door or something? I don't want the neighbour kids getting in."

"What're they going to steal? Your Wellingtons or your packets of seeds?" I smirked. Piccolo looked irritated, so I added, "Of course, I will. Don't worry about it."

Appeased, Piccolo lay back down on my bed, clearly exhausted. He tried to hide it by folding his arms behind is head and adopting a jovial tone.

"So, what do you do for fun around here?"

I just looked at him like he had gone mad. He sighed and tried to pull himself back up into the sitting position. After watching him struggle for a few seconds I reached out and helped him.

"What _do_ you do around here?" Piccolo repeated, breathless, when he was upright again.

"Me? I read. You, however, are going to sleep and get your energy up. When you're strong enough, I'm going to have you weight train." I told him, matter-of-factly. There would be no arguments over this, I'd decided.

"Weight train?" Piccolo seemed horrified at the thought.

"Yes." I hissed, "You need to rebuild your muscle. You've got none left. You used to have a power-level in the millions, now you're as weak as a kitten. Can you even power-up anymore?"

"I…I don't know." Piccolo looked meek. He wasn't even fighting back anymore. Maybe I was being too harsh with him.

"Well, don't try. You'll probably faint." I muttered brusquely as I picked up my book and the empty cups and headed towards the door, "Get some sleep, gather your strength. I need to go to the village tomorrow and get some supplies. You should come. We can get the local doctor to take a look at you."

"What would a human doctor know about my physiology?" he said, still irritable. There was a dark cloud over Piccolo's head.

"Couldn't hurt." I simply shrugged. "You sleep here until you're a bit stronger. If I recall, the sofa bed is rather lumpy. It'll probably shatter your bones."

"I'm not made of glass, Vegeta." Piccolo mumbled bitterly.

"You could've fooled me." I replied, my voice growing soft as my throat closed up.

It was the dead of night, and I was dreaming that dream again. Something was suffocating me, and thin strips of white light were dancing through the darkness that surrounded me like drunken ballerinas. Then I could see my wife and children; they wouldn't look at me and the colour was draining from their faces rapidly, pooling, like paint, messily at their feet.

I awoke with a start.

I could hear muffled sobs coming from the next room. I got out of bed, barefoot, walking across the floor, my motions cautious. I didn't tiptoe – I liked the sound of the way my feet stuck to, and then peeled off from, the lacquered woodwork. I peered round the doorframe and could just about make out Piccolo's features in the pale grey light. He saw me, but looked blank.

Wordlessly, I walked into the room and sat down next to him on the bed. He, all limbs and eyes, tucked his knees under his chin. I, stronger and broader, took him into my arms and held him as firmly as I dared. I felt every bone biting at my flesh, as it jutted from beneath the fabric of his skin.

"I'm scared." He whispered into my chest. I felt my heart break.

Close-mouthed, he pressed his lips to my collarbone. I grasped him tighter, nuzzling the top of his head. He tilted his head back to look at me. His eyes were so black in the dark, so intense. They bore right into me. He was in so much pain. His lip quivered. I leaned in a pushed my mouth against his. We kissed dryly, though tenderly. Piccolo broke away and buried his head back into my chest.

I held him until he was asleep again.

These treacherous hours that lie after midnight are the ones to fear. These are the ones when we are not ourselves. Reality has abandoned us and our dreams play tricks on us. Am I even really awake now?

I fell into bed, praying for morning.

It soon arrived.

* * *

Notes: Thank you for some lovely reviews, (especially to Rogue, thank you). I suppose it's hard to know where I'm going with this…I haven't been reading fanfiction like I used to, so I don't know if stories like this are still oddities within the fandom. That not withstanding, I like writing like this, though I sometimes quietly wish I could write something happier. Something less bleak. Something less desperate. Maybe next time. Thefinal part shall follow soon, I'm just doing another grammer sweep. Things always slip under the net, and it does irk me somewhat. I'm also working on an update for Beyond Wonderland, my Vegeta/Piccolo site(see my homepage link).Hopefully by the end of the week, if not sooner. 


	3. Part Three

_The Birds Flew Backwards_

_By Little Suzi_

_I do not love you except because I love you – Pablo Neruda_

_Part Three_

We flew down to the village, not mentioning last night. People stared when we got there. Of course, it was unprecedented to see me with any company, and when the company took shape in the form of a six-foot tall vivid green skeleton, I could understand their stares. But Piccolo was clearly feeling uneasy. Shivering underneath his thick coat and my scarf, wrapped up to his ears, I could tell he was only fractionally there. The rest of him was somewhere calm and serene and entirely devoid of life. Probably warm. I could see the desert in his eyes. I took his arm and dragged him towards the doctor's surgery.

The waiting room was beige, unremarkable, and smelt, like any place remotely medical does, of anti-septic. We didn't have to wait long before being shown into the doctor's room. He was a short, fat, round man, with a red face and a greying moustache. He looked first surprised to see me, then surprised to see the Namek, then surprised at his extreme thinness. This succession of surprise was wryly amusing, but I don't think Piccolo had even noticed. The doctor immediately demanded Piccolo strip to the waist and step on the scale. I moved to the other side of the room and turned the radiator up. Piccolo hadn't moved a muscle. Worriedly, I moved back over to him and touched his arm. He flinched away, and then suddenly seemed to register what had been said and silently began to remove his garments and stepped on to the scale. The doctor's eyes widened worriedly. I tried to lean over to see the number, but I couldn't make it out. Then the doctor measured him. I caught that number – 6'6". (_Sheesh_!) The doctor looked anxious, and asked me to leave the room. I thought to question him, to demand to stay, but he just looked so anxious. I left without a word, even though I felt put out.

A short while later, during which time I had found myself reading a women's magazine, I was called back in and the doctor asked Piccolo to leave the room to fill in some forms. He complied without a word.

"Vegeta, will you sit down please?" he said once Piccolo had gone.

"He's too thin. I know he's too thin." I said, impatiently, crossing every limb.

"Yes." The doctor nodded, biting his lip, "Yes. The important question is; why is he not eating?"

"Drinking."

"What?"

"His species doesn't eat. And are you implying that he's doing this on purpose?" I could feel myself getting angry. I tried to control myself.

"Well, yes. He's clearly grieving. But I can't figure out why this alone would make him want to die. Is there something else that - "

"Want to die? Are you mad? There's nothing wrong with his mind!" I was standing now, ki rising.

"Please sit down, Mr. Vegeta." The doctor was entirely unruffled by my little outburst. It was probably because of this that I sat back down without a fuss. "Your friend appears to me to be very withdrawn and emotionally disturbed. I'm no expert but –"

"Damn right, you're not. He's always been withdrawn –"

"But it's clear even to me that he is an extremely troubled individual." The doctor was speaking loudly now. I shook my head, my ears buzzing.

"He's not trying to kill himself. He's just sad. Lonely. He wouldn't ever try to –"

Something clicked together in my mind. How long was the Namek lifespan? How much younger was he than me? And how alone did we, both of us, feel right now? Was it entirely out of the realms of possibility that maybe he was intentionally wasting away, reducing himself to skin and bone, in a frantic bid to escape this world?

"I think it might be more a subconscious action than a conscious one." The doctor said.

"Yes. I think I understand." I stood up, "How much weight does he need to gain before he's healthy again?"

"At least one hundred pounds. He weighs only 98 pounds at the moment; someone of his height should weigh about 200."

I nodded silently and left the room.

I was so angry. It felt like my head was overheating. I kept thinking, 'how dare that Namek do this to himself?' But why was I suddenly so irate? I took a few deep breaths, realised I was being irrational and let my anger ebb.

Piccolo was waiting for me, arms folded, leaning against one beige wall. A very old posture that I was so familiar with. But he just looked like a perversion of his former self. Stick-figured and artificial.

"What did he say to you?" He grunted without looking at me.

"Nothing that I didn't already know, really." I replied, taking his arm and leading him outside. "What were the forms for?"

"Hmm. Prescription. For my dizziness and headaches." He sounded distant.

"Headaches? You never mentioned…"

"Well." He shrugged, "Where's the chemist?"

"Next to the bookshop. I'll take you."

I left him in the chemist while I went to get my monthly food. The horrible lady there grinned at me and said something chirpy, but I ignored her, stalking among the shelves for extra tea, coffee, soup, milk and juice. Anything I could pour down that Namek's throat. I ignored every word that the woman said, gathered up the bags and left. She looked affronted, but I didn't care. I ducked my head into the bookshop and collected some new reading material, then returned to the chemist. Piccolo was waiting for me outside. We flew back home.

Tired from the excursion, Piccolo went to bed. I cracked open a new book, but I couldn't focus on it. I kept thinking about the Namek, sleeping in the next room. And about myself. How we'd both reacted to the same measure of grief and loneliness so differently. And how, now I was taking care of him, I hadn't felt at all lonely. Having someone to argue with, someone from the old days that reminded me of happier times, was remarkably fulfilling. Yet there was something to just having Piccolo with me…not as an old comrade in arms, but as a person…as an odd, flawed, slightly crazy old friend I'd become very fond of.

But, considering what he'd become, he seemed like a horrible metaphor for my very existence. All that I had once known and loved had changed, withered away. Maybe I was trying to find something in Piccolo that had died long ago. It seemed wrong to do that, as it currently seemed as if his sanity and madness traversed one another. I sighed and put the book down.

I got up and poked my head round the doorframe. Piccolo, eyes half-closed, was all bundled up in the sheets, clutching them around him as if they were his chrysalis. He looked like he was just emerging from a fitful sleep, bewildered by some chaotic dream. His eyes, heavy with sleep, didn't even meet mine.

"Hey." I said softly, remembering how sensitive his hearing was. (_Why hadn't I thought of that before now?_) "I'm going to go to your house now and collect your things. I'll be about four hours. Will you be alright on your own?"

He nodded, eyes sliding back closed. I went into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, then left it on the dressing table in case he wanted it while I was gone.

I tried to fly quickly. It's at times like this I wish I'd bugged my rival into teaching me his translocation technique. It would've cut my travelling time phenomenally. Apart from when I was visiting the dead, I realised, I couldn't use the technique for that. And that was the core reason for my usual trip out.

I spotted the town that Piccolo called home. The snow had melted now, and I could clearly see the brown, tilled, fertile earth, the sheep and the children playing in the schoolyard, pouring like milk out of the gates on their way home, in brightly coloured coats. A lot of the houses were cottages like Piccolo's, made of dark grey stone with thatched roofs. I swooped low to get a better look before flying upward again towards Piccolo's house. As I landed I noticed a couple of children sitting on his wall, both young boys of about eight or nine.

"Wow! You can fly!" said the taller, jumping up with excitement.

"Do you know where Mr. Daimao is?" said the smaller, more reserved than his companion.

"Mr. Daimao?" there was a spasm in a muscle in my mouth as I fought the urge to smile.

"Yeah. That's what our parents said to call him." The taller boy said, looking at his feet. His shoes were scuffed at the toes. "They say we bug him too much. But sometimes he'll tell us stories about battles for the planet."

"Oh, does he now?" I smiled, despite myself. Then I thought how desperately lonely Piccolo must've been to resort to telling these kids tales of his glory days. The smile melted from my face.

"Did he really do all those things?" The smaller child asked, "Did he really fight alongside Son Goku?"

"Yes he did." I sighed regretfully.

"Where is he? The people in town were worried. They thought his house had been broken into." The tall one said.

"They were talking about a Neighbourhood Watch." The smaller one added. I rolled my eyes; of all the mundane concerns…

"He's just fine. He's staying with me for a while."

"Who are you? Are you a fighter to? Were you in the Earth's Special Forces too?" The tall boy was rather overeager. My lip curled.

"Yes. Yes, I was." I began walking up the path, to signal the conversation was at an end. They didn't try to follow me.

I pushed the door open and walked inside. The house was beginning to smell musty. I opened a window as I walked through to the bedroom, heading straight for the wardrobe. I was mystified as to why Piccolo had switched to civilian clothes. I mean, I knew he was living in a town with people now, but that never stopped him before. Maybe it was an attempt to hide his diminishing figure. Or maybe it was another symptom of age. I emptied the wardrobe into a suitcase I'd found under the bed, not bothering to fold anything properly. The Namek would probably shout at me later – what was it that just made me want to provoke him?

At the bottom of the wardrobe, folded up into a tight bundle and covered with a woollen scarf, as if trying to cover its very existence, I found Piccolo's weighted cape and turban. He clearly hadn't worn either in quite some time. I packed them, deciding that, somehow, I would get him back into at least one of these garments. I spotted a pair of reading glasses on the nightstand. Smirking, I picked them up and slid them into my pocket.

I went into the little bathroom that was adjoined to the bedroom and gathered up what I saw; toothbrush, toothpaste, soap. The sink basin and the floor of the bathroom had faint streaks of mud covering them. Piccolo must clean the garden from himself in here. Which reminded me – I went into the kitchen and collected Piccolo's Wellington boots, putting them in a plastic bag so mud wouldn't flake everywhere. Then, on my way out, I snatched up that frame with the photograph of all of us, shut the window and boarded up the door.

The kids were still outside.

"I know who you are." The small one said, "You're Vegeta. You're a hero."

I didn't respond.

"When is Mr. Daimao coming back?" the tall one demanded.

"When he feels better." I growled, "He's getting some mountain air."

"Why? What's wrong with him?" the smaller one looked like he didn't believe that Piccolo could possibly be ill in the slightest.

"He's old now, and needs the company of other old people who remember him when he was young." I lied fluidly. Though, who knows? Maybe Piccolo was feeling that way. And maybe I felt that way too.

I took flight immediately, earning cries of awe from the two boys, and flew through the clouds as fast as I could. That little town sickened me slightly, and I hoped I would never have to go back there. Strangely, I also hoped Piccolo wouldn't have to go back either.

I arrived home and immediately checked on Piccolo. He was fast asleep in bed. The glass of water I'd left him had been drained; I smiled. I left the suitcase filled with his personal belongings at the foot of the bed and the glasses on the dressing table. As I collected the glass I found myself stroking the Namek's cheek absently with the back of my hand. I withdrew it sharply and stomped out of the room.

A little while later, whilst I was sitting in the kitchen, after I'd finally managed to become absorbed in a book, Piccolo appeared in the doorway. He looked a little better. He came in to the room steadily and sat down opposite me. I found the bottle of pills the doctor had given him in the half-emptied grocery bag and pushed them towards him, along with another glass of water. He wordlessly took a pill and washed it down with a sip of water, pushing the rest of the glass away. I pursed my lips and raised an eyebrow.

"No, Vegeta." Piccolo said stubbornly in response, "No more. I'll be sick. I need to start slow."

"I've been meaning to talk to you about something." I said, putting the book face down on the table.

"Oh yes?" He seemed nervous. An image of a black night and black, intense eyes flashed through my mind.

"About what the doctor said to me."

"Ah…I see…I thought as much." Piccolo paused, "Did he think I was losing my mind?" He seemed to shrink into himself as he said that, as if he feared that more than anything. Maybe his mind was to him as my pride was to me; all that we had now. All that remained. _Apart from each other._

"Not especially. He thought you were disturbed…" I took a breath. There were eels squirming in my chest. "And he said he thought that maybe you were trying to die."

"…Oh." It came out a whisper. Piccolo's sonorous voice temporarily abandoned him. He looked at his hands.

"Were you trying to die?" Now I was terribly worried. I hadn't thought that Piccolo consciously wanted to take his own life. Starving himself seemed a rather roundabout way of doing it.

"I…No…I just…" Piccolo was still looking at his hands. I stared at them too, all bony and frail. They looked like a pair of wings. Broken bird wings. I reached over and encased them with my own.

"You what?" Inside, I was aching. I didn't want to hear this, I decided. I may have started it, but I didn't want to hear it. I was angry again, "What the hell were you trying to do?"

"I wanted to escape." Piccolo raised his eyes to my face, hurt expressed plainly in his dulcet tones, "I didn't think I could take living another hundred years so alone. I wanted to empty myself out…Not self-destruct, per se…not really. I needed to go quietly, while there was still some meaning left. While there was something of myself to salvage. My intention was to self-immolate, without fire."

"Piccolo, this has to stop." I folded my arms.

"I…" he sighed, "I know." His voice was low and breathy.

"I'll help you."

"Thank you."

After that, things got easier.

The days began to while away in the usual manner. I read, cooked meals and stared out the window as the winter began to melt away, warmed by the pale pink spring. Nothing had changed, apart from that Piccolo slept in the next room. He still needed a lot of sleep, but as the trees began to bloom and the sky seemed to glow, he spent more and more time awake. He was putting on some weight, stopped seeming so brittle and breakable, beginning to glow like the spring. I started to train him, to build some muscle through physical exercise. I didn't dare push him too hard. He tired easily.

He began to brighten up with the spring as well. He spoke about flowers the colour of the sky and long grasses, moving like an ocean in the northern winds and blossoms with heads like butterflies. I could see an ornate garden in his words.

One day I just couldn't find him anywhere. Then I looked out of the window. On his hands and knees, in his Wellington boots and up to his elbows in earth, Piccolo was turning the patch of wild grass and weeds outside my home into a garden of our own. He must've gone back to his horrid little house to pick up his gardening supplies. I could see his trowel and a spade and seeds and bulbs and even a small, unearthed tree. He looked so content outside, streaked with the brown earth. I smiled fondly at the sight before throwing myself down into a chair to read my book. I smiled at him when he returned inside, kicking off his muddy boots.

"You look ridiculous." I informed him, taking in the sight of the Namek covered in soil, half-drowned in it.

"It's not easy you know." He sniffed, affronted, "Turning that wasteland out there into something that will grow."

"I'm sure it'll be a paradise when you're done." I smirked, turning my attention back to my book.

He moved towards me and wiped a long hand across my face, spreading muck across my forehead, my nose, my mouth. I sprang up and grabbed hold of his hand, of the soft, earthen flesh. He used his other hand so spread more filth, laughing richly. And, as disgruntled as I was, I couldn't help but laugh too. I remembered this feeling from a long time ago. Contentment? Probably.

I kept having those nightmares, though.

The thin light was growing brighter, flashing across my face quickly, blindingly white. But, just as quickly as it came, it would pass, and I would be plunged into the darkness again. Each time it happened felt like losing someone I loved, and my stomach fell a thousand feet. I felt like I was lost by the sea at night time; I could hear the ocean, could hear the wet, but I could not see it. Then I stopped being able to breathe, the light flashing before my face.

I'd wake up, panting. I'd see Piccolo looking at me worriedly, perched at my bedside, his hands clasped around my shoulders, as if he'd just shaken me awake. Breathlessly, I threw myself into his arms, burying my face in his chest, trying to breathe again, trying to remember where I was and who I am. Piccolo would wrap his long arms around me, tucking my head under his. Sometimes he would kiss the top of my head and rock me like a child. Sometimes I would find his mouth with my own, though we never spoke of it when the daylight came. Maybe I had cried, I can't recall. His pointed chin would dig into my scalp, and the bones in his arms would hurt my back. The pain brought back some semblance of myself and I would push Piccolo away. He wouldn't leave, though. He would stay by my bedside until I was asleep again, running long fingers through my hair. Occasionally the scenario would be repeated twice, sometimes thrice, a night.

I began have panic attacks during the day, certain I was being asphyxiated by some invisible foe. Once or twice I fainted. The Namek found my unconscious form on the floor; he still didn't have the strength to move me, so had to try to rouse me quickly. Piccolo grew sick with worry. It was odd; he'd stopped drinking again because he was so concerned about me. He lost some of what little weight he had gained. I knew something had to be done about this. I went to see the fat, red doctor, who gave me sleeping pills. They began to work, for a time.

Then the nightmares began to get worse. Piccolo would rush in to help me, but I didn't see him; I saw the thinness. I saw him as flashes of white light. I began to fear sleep. Insomnia claimed me. I would watch the day turn to night and then pale back into day again. I started to think I was getting too old for this.

Piccolo banned me from drinking coffee. I got better.

I think it was simply that I grew used to having him there that I grew to be dependant on him. I stopped being quite so manic, now my nightmares were subsiding. And I was no longer lonely.

It was odd training him, though. It wasn't like training my children, because he already knew how to fight. And how to fight well. He just had no strength. I eventually coaxed him back into his weighted clothes, then into the gravity chamber. Something was missing though. Something seemed to have vanished from his technique, and I had no idea what it was.

That is, until I stopped by his room one day and found him meditating. Floating a good foot off the bed, wavering unsteadily at times, but nevertheless, meditating. He looked so tranquil, yet so focused. I could feel his power level rising back towards where it belonged. When he trained after that he seemed far more honed; his mind was sharper, his reflexes were better.

It felt as if things were all out in the open now, although, in reality, we knew perfectly well that they weren't. I was clearly still projecting something on to him, he was still weak and sad and unsure. And there was something else there. A need, perhaps. I needed to keep him, not just alive, but with me. Even though the months passed and, as the spring transmuted into just another memory, Piccolo got stronger, gained some weight, gained some muscle, I still didn't stop worrying about him.

Not a word was mentioned about his leaving. I think now that we both secretly realised that we wanted to just stay together. If I had asked Piccolo to leave, he would've packed and left immediately. But I didn't want him to leave.

The summer arrived in a haze and the garden began to bloom. Purple lilac blossoms wound their way around the front of the house, and wild heather in a deeper purple grew in a thick thatch around the front. Marigolds, as glorious as a sunset, and scented blue hyacinths sprang up, lush and fragrant. There were tough little wildflowers too; the cornflowers were the same colour of the sky. The trees grew heavy with fleshy pink flowers. As he had promised, he's made the sky grow from the ground. Piccolo had made my grey little mountain explode with colour.

I stopped wanting to wear black and I ate sweet peaches and runny honey with everything. I made lavender jam and grilled meat with the sour cherries that the young trees bore. Piccolo drank fragrant teas made from rose petals and crushed violets.

I fixed the old chair on the porch, and sat out in the garden, ablaze with blossoms, reading, as Piccolo sowed poppy seeds. I could smell the perfume from the luminous jewel-like flowers. It was delicate and subtle, not at all like the lilies from the florist, nor like my soap. It was new, yet somehow familiar. I would take deep breaths and let my lungs fill with clouds of this perfume. I could almost taste the bliss on the air.

One evening, just before twilight, I was sat outside, open book in my lap, watching lazy butterflies dance through the pollen-filled sky. Piccolo was buried in the fat, wild flowers somewhere. I sighed contentedly, thinking about Piccolo, thinking about life.

I stood up, gazing across the garden of shimmering petals to where Piccolo was buried in blue grasses and daisies and baby pear trees. Smiling I walked down the porch steps and through the waxy blossoms to where he was. I sat down next to him, and he pulled back from where he was patting down the earth around the young tree, leaning back to put us at about the same height. He was conspicuously filthy with soil and mud.

"It's so…" I was lost for words. I didn't know why I had spoken. Only one word came to mind, "Beautiful." I said softly.

"I'm glad you like it." Piccolo replied, wiping the dirt from his face.

"I've never seen anything quite like it…of all the planets I've been to, some overgrown with the most unbelievable jungles…this is the most amazing…it's like an oasis in a desert." I shook my head with silent wonder.

"It sort of is. Our escape. From the outside world, a desert that cruel. And an escape from time."

He smiled at me, warmly. As warm as the golden evening sun that poured down on us, lighting up our features, almost making us young again, and the tall flowers that hid us from the world around. I returned the smile, reaching a hand out and grasping his neck. He leaned to the side and I pulled him towards me, falling back into the flowerbeds.

We kissed deeply as we lay amongst the flowers. Piccolo, holding me tightly, crouched over me. He was still thin, and I was still sad. But here, in this golden garden, nothing seemed to matter anymore. We kissed tenderly and brutally again and again until the light finally gave way and the darkness of night claimed us. The sky was black, lit up with fireflies. We, with bee-stung lips, returned indoors.

I slipped out of the bed just before dawn. I pulled the fine gauze curtains apart and stared up into the clear, grey sky. It was full of the black shapes of descending birds. I fancied that they were flying backwards. The sun was beginning to appear, a filtered pale gold just beyond the horizon. I lit a cigarette and smoked it, watching the sky full of birds, and the light. I could sense Piccolo stirring behind me. I did not turn around. The light grew stronger. I blew silver smoke from my nose.

"Do you love me?" I said without turning from the window.

"I've died before." He replied, thoughtfully, "This feels a lot like that."

Dawn painted the sky with pinks and blues. The sun was thick and heavy, like honey. The black shapes of the birds dispersed. I ground my cigarette out on the windowsill, leaving a black burn on the white varnish.

"You know," I said, "One day you just won't be able to wake me up."

"I know."

"And you still love me?"

"I do."

I smiled faintly and turned from the window, returning to my lover's arms.

_Fin._

* * *

Notes: Well, that's it. I hope I achieved what I set out today, and I hope you enjoyed this tale of love, life, time, longing, age, lonliness and desperation. I'm not good at happy endings, but this one is a postive one, and I'm glad I thought of the scene (I actually wrote the last scene when I was about half way through writing the second 'part') as it just seems to work so well in my head. I hope you think it works on paper too. As usual, reviews are greatly appreciated, even adored. Big thank you to new reviwers, and big hugs to old friends; Volcanic, for your sweet review & always frequenting my site, and Trunksblue, who has reviewed since round about my very first work on these fair shores of all those years ago. 

And, speaking of the site...guess what I did? It's been updated! There are a few new things, and this story has been archived there. It may not look it, but it was a huge update, because now all the fanfiction there is up to code. Hooray. I deserve a glass of wine after all that! The site can be found through my profile page, and is located at (beyondwonderland dot atspace dot com) and is probably the first & largest V/P shrine on the web. Go take a look. It would make me happy.


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